


Duty of Care

by cyphernaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Corporal Punishment, Domestic Discipline, Don't worry Mary's still a bad-ass, F/M, Spanking, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson has always loved his wife for her courage and commitment, but when he married her, he meant to be the one to take on her fight for her, and to keep her safe from the dangers inherent in doing things on her own.  When she insists on putting herself at risk, he vows to do everything he can to keep that from happening.</p><p>Things don't go as planned.</p><p>(This is not graphic or physically extreme but it could be uncomfortable and triggering in the portrayal of domestic violence.  Feel free to comment to ask a question if you are concerned about reading it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to Embalmer56, who brainstormed and workshopped this fic, as well as kept me going when I would have been watching Netflix instead.

Doctor Watson sat at the breakfast table staring at his empty plate. His gaze soon travelled to the empty spot on the table where his paper should waiting for him, then the empty chair where his wife should be sitting.

He rang the bell again.

Jane rushed through the door, her cheeks pink with exertion. She laid his breakfast in front of him with a reckless clatter. Mary had spoken to her about such negligence, or so John had been led to believe. Of course, she’d also been taken to task over her dilatory and slipshod attitude to her work, and there had been no observable improvement in those areas, either.

“Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t want to come out here without your breakfast. You don’t seem to like that.”

The impertinence had also continued.

“And do I seem to like you ignoring me when I call for you?” John asked tightly.

“I wasn’t ignoring you, sir. I was preparing your breakfast. That _is_ what you were ringing for, isn’t it?”

John fumed silently, unwilling to be pulled into an argument with a servant. Jane was completely incorrigible, and he’d tell Mary to give the girl her notice at the end of the day. If he saw his wife before the end of the day, he amended sourly.

“Or were you ringing to ask after Mrs. Watson?” Jane asked with a pleasant smile that hinted entirely too strongly of a smirk for Dr. Watson’s liking.

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after my own wife,” John snapped. “Get out.”

Jane scurried out the door, and John cursed himself for failing to remind her to light the fires and bring him his paper, as if he should need to direct her daily on the requirements of her employment. 

He ate his breakfast quickly, undistracted by the company of his wife, or even the morning’s news. His irritation was beginning to ebb when Jane reemerged from the kitchen unbidden.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but my uncle’s here, and the cook says she needs instructions.”

Dr. Watson set his cutlery down firmly enough for Jane to flinch. “Your uncle?”

She tilted her head to the side and looked out the window. “Yes, sir. He’s the butcher, sir. Mrs. Barrows says she doesn’t know what to buy.”

Throwing his serviette onto the table, John stood and strode back into the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Barrows, looked suitably startled to see him, and John shared her sentiment for the impropriety of his presence.

“I presume you’re capable of determining what we need?” he asked her.

Mrs. Barrows straightened, affronted at the very idea that she would not know the needs of her own kitchen. “Of course, Dr. Watson, but Mrs. Watson should approve the final list, and I haven’t received any instructions, on this or several other matters.”

Watson took the list from her hand gave it a perfunctory scan. “This is fine.”

Mrs. Barrows turned to the back door with the order, and John watched her, squinting at the sight of a full grown man rather than the message boy he’d expected.

“Is that the butcher himself?” he asked. He felt that he’d stumbled into a dream realm where nothing was quite as it should be.

“It is, Dr. Watson,” the man said, taking off his hat and moving further into the doorway, as Mrs. Barrows found business to attend to elsewhere. “I always come by myself when I can to see my Janie. How’s she getting on?”

It was no wonder that the girl couldn’t attend to her duties when she kept regular receiving hours in the kitchen. “Not well, I’m afraid. She may be receiving her notice soon.”

The man’s eyes widened. “She’s to be sacked, then? Mrs. Watson seemed so fond of her.”

Watson frowned. “Fondness aside, she can barely keep up with her duties, and her attitude has been atrocious. I’ve never seen such impertinence.”

“I see.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Dr. Watson, I know I haven’t the right to ask you this, but if you and Mrs. Watson can give her another chance, I know I can put her back on the right path. She’s my sister’s girl, you see, and her father died when she was little. We did our best for her, but she doesn’t always-”

John turned to see what had stopped him, and saw Jane standing just a few steps away, the remains of John’s breakfast in her hands.

“I didn’t know you were in here, sir. You breakfast was cold, so I took it away.”

Her uncle looked to John, who nodded his assent. “Janie, I’ve been talking to Dr. Watson here, and he tells me you haven’t been doing what you should do. He’ll give you another chance, and I’m going to make sure you get back on the right path.”

“I..” The girl was petrified, and Watson found his own feet rooted to the floor, held firm by the tension in the air.

“There’s no good in drawing it out. Come on, girl.”

She walked toward the door with halting steps, and when she got within reach of her uncle, he took her arm and pulled her the rest of the way out, closing the door behind them. Watson let out a breath, only to hold it again as he heard the distressed hush of Jane’s voice, punctuated by the insistent rumble of her uncle’s. Then both silenced and were replaced by the unmistakable crack of leather against what could only be Jane’s body.

John steeled himself against the wake of guilt that washed over him, reminding himself that he shouldn’t interfere in another family’s affairs. His presence alone left him feeling complicit in the barbarity, though. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so, and he stood steadfastly ignoring the beating just beyond the door.

Finally it stopped, and the door creaked open. John kept his eyes averted until Jane stood directly in front of him, red-eyed and sniffly, with hands that didn’t quite know where they should stay.

“I’m sorry for my impertinence, Dr. Watson. Thank you for giving me another chance.”

He gave her a curt nod, unsure what to say, especially with her uncle looking on from the doorway. “All right, then. Go light the fires.”

She fled, and Watson relaxed slightly, focussing on her uncle, who seemed unperturbed by what he’d just done. “She’s a good girl, really, but all the votes for women nonsense has too many of the girls in a bad way.”

“The campaign?” Watson asked. He knew Mary had been involved, but he hadn’t realised that its effect had spread all the way to the lower classes. She hadn’t spoken much to him about it, and John hadn’t paid much attention to what she had described. It had all seemed an abstract intellectual exercise.

“Less of a campaign and more an excuse to giggle over MP’s, from what I’ve seen. I haven’t met a grown woman yet with enough time to dither over it. Not that’d I’d mind my Gracie having a vote. It’d be another vote for me, I’d imagine, and another still if you think of Janie’s mother.” He grinned at John. “I’m sure Mrs. Watson’d follow you just the same. You’d think she was the queen herself, the way Janie talks about her.”

John kept his silence, both on the campaign in general, and on Mary’s willingness to defer to his judgement on political matters.

* * *

John saw his last patient out the door, then closed it with a sigh. Mary still hadn’t returned, and John refused to ask Jane where she might be. He briefly considered sending Mycroft Holmes a telegram, but soon decided against advertising his inability to look after his own wife.

Instead, he sat alone again at the table, though this time at least Jane was attending to the meal. She’d been a paragon of dutiful industry for the day, and remained remarkably pleasant as well, if a bit subdued. He ate the late dinner in silence, which the servant made no attempts to break.

Jane was clearing John’s plate from the table when the sound of Mary's return prompted her to drop it back in front of him.

“Mrs. Watson!” she exclaimed, rushing out of the room. John stood to follow at a more reasonable pace, as he listened to their exchange.

“I’m quite all right, Jane. Please see to Dr. Watson.”

“He’s already eaten, ma’am. Are you hungry? I can bring you something.”

“No, I’m-” She stopped at John’s arrival, handing her overcoat off to Jane. “Oh, darling. I’m so glad you didn’t wait for me.”

“Where were you? You been gone over fourteen hours!” He hadn’t meant to scold her in front of Jane, but her nonchalance at her extended absence had shocked him. Even after the mild rebuke, she simply removed her gloves, which Jane took from her.

“Yes, I’m utterly exhausted. I wish I had time to visit with you, but I need to look over the household books before I go to sleep.”

Before John had an opportunity to demand that she account for her actions, she had left the foyer. He strode back to the drawing room, where Mary sat at her tiny desk, the account book already open in front of her. He bit down on another reprimand, reminding himself that the issue at hand was not her disrespect, but her safety.

“Mary, darling, I was worried about you today, and I’m afraid you may be overtiring yourself. As your husband and your doctor, I really must insist that you rest. These extended outings are damaging to your health.”

She continued to pore over the numbers. “That’s very kind, John, but it’s not beyond my capacity.”

“Of course not, darling,” he agreed. He’d fallen in love with her for her determination, among other things, but he’d never imagined it directed toward him. “But there’s no reason for you to strain yourself. There’s no reason for you to do anything but run the household, and we can hire more help with that, if you think it’s necessary.”

She lay both her hands on the desk and finally faced him. “Thank you for your consideration, John. Let’s talk about this at a later time.”

She certainly didn’t appear thankful, nor had she made any commitment to cease her activities outside the house. Given that she had no history of absconding in the middle of the night, he was willing to wait until the morning to insist that she stay home.

“We can discuss it over breakfast,” he suggested.

Thankfully, she nodded her agreement. “Early. I’ll be busy tomorrow as well.”

He pressed his lips together to avoid contradicting her. He could explain his decision in the morning, when they’d both had the benefit of rest.

He went to his dressing room, where he changed into his night clothes. He considered going to Mary’s bed, but it felt odd to sleep in it without her, even if he preferred to be there when she returned to bed herself. In the end, he chose his own bed and lay there staring at the ceiling waiting for the sound of his wife ascending the stairs. He fell asleep unsatisfied.

* * *

He woke before dawn with Jane’s nervous hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,sir, but Mrs. Watson says you must eat now if you’re to eat together.”

He waved Jane off with a nod of his head. They’d have the entire day to talk, but these matters should be dealt with delicately, and certainly not using the maid as intermediary.

He washed and dressed quickly, then descended the stairs to see Mary already sitting at the table.

“Good morning, darling,” he greeted her, then kissed her cheek, eager to start the day with affection and goodwill.

“Good morning, John,” she smiled back up at him. “I’m sorry to wake you so early, but you wanted to speak before I left for the day.”

He settled in his chair, pleased to see that the paper was waiting for him, and the fire was burning cheerfully in its place. Jane set his breakfast in front of him, and heartened by his household’s return to order, he addressed his wife.

“I’d like for you to stay home for the day and rest.”

Mary cast him a winsome and regretful smile. “I couldn’t possibly stay home today. There’s simply too much work with the campaign.”

“Yes, darling, I realise that. That’s why I’d like you to end your involvement.”

Mary’s smile disappeared, but her reaction paled to that of Jane, who gasped and turned such an alarmed countenance toward his wife that Mary laid a comforting hand on the girl’s arm.

“Jane, go wait in the kitchen. We'll ring you if we need you,” she said, and waited for Jane’s obedient nod and quick exit before turning back to John. “Darling, my work with the campaign is very important to me.”

The situation troubled him, and though his deductive powers did not match his friend’s, he knew when something was amiss. “Mary, be honest with me. Is it, really?”

“Of course it's important!” she snapped at him, and he levelled a disapproving look on her before responding.

“No, Mary, is it the _campaign_?”

“John...” Her voice held a note of pity, and John was having none of it. The elder Holmes held too great a sway on his wife, and the lure of adventure could easily lead her into situations that she was unprepared to find her way out of.

“It is far too dangerous for you to accept employment from Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes is quite aware of my capabilities, as am I.”

He ignored the churlish tone. “Mary, darling, I don't want to quarrel with you. I've made up my mind, and I forbid it.”

She looked at him as if she wasn't quite sure of what he'd said. “Then I forbid you to forbid it,” she ventured with a slight smile that didn't warm John in the slightest. He suddenly felt that he was dealing with an impudent child who'd been refused her way, and not the intelligent woman whom he'd married.

“I'm very sorry to disappoint you Mary, but I'm afraid I have to insist. If you need something to occupy your time, we can discuss something more suitable this evening after I've finished with my patients. Until then, well...” he searched his brain for an activity that could engage a woman for a few hours. “There's always your needlepoint.”

She stared at him, and he thought she would argue back. Wisely, though, she put down her cutlery and left the dining room, her breakfast barely touched on the plates. It wasn't quite the ideal reaction, but John had never expected Mary to meekly put aside her own wishes, even when it was in her best interest. He was pleased enough that she'd seen reason, and they could always reconcile at luncheon.

He rang for Jane, and she promptly appeared.

“I'll be seeing patients all this morning, and I'm not to be disturbed, but I'll be having luncheon with Mrs. Watson at noon.”

Jane glanced out the window before tilting her head uncertainly. “Didn't you know, sir? Your wife is gone for the day.”

* * *

After half a day of meeting with patients, Dr. Watson was surprised to find himself face to face with the butcher again, this time in his consulting room.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, sir,” the man said, hat in hand. “But I wondered about Jane, whether Mrs. Watson still plans to sack her.”

John paused, as Mary had never planned to sack the girl. His hesitation only seemed to amplify the concerns of Jane’s uncle, though, and he wrung his hat nervously and dipped his head in supplication. John was quick to reassure him, “Her behaviour has improved remarkably.”

“That’s good,” he answered, shoulders slumping with relief. “I hope you’ll tell me if she’s any more trouble, sir. It pains me to see her cry, but better a short bit of pain than out of a job. I promised her mother I’d keep her from trouble, at least until she gets a husband to do it. The poor girl’s made me work for it, I can tell you that, God bless her.”

The lower classes always seemed to speak their mind without hesitation, and John didn’t know how to respond to such personal information. He began to rifle through his medical equipment in an effort to speed the butcher’s exit. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Not at all sir. After all, it’s our duty to keep them from harm.” Unfortunately, the weak compliment had only encouraged the butcher’s expectation of masculine camaraderie. “Of course, I don’t need to tell you, that sir. You’re a married man.”

Dr. Watson’s grip on a syringe was suddenly dangerously tight. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to embalmber56 for jumping in and betaing this fic in response to my desperate need to post tonight!

John sat in his consulting room, his last patient long gone, dinner long forgotten, and waited for his wife’s return. His conversation with the butcher lay heavily on his mind, as did the decision that he’d made. Mary was his responsibility, though, and it was not in his nature simply to ignore an unpleasant task before him. 

Jane knocked softly on the door, lingering outside the room, and made all the more nervous by John’s start at the noise. “Sorry to disturb you sir, but you asked me to tell you when Mrs. Watson returned to the house.”

He kept his gaze away from the bookshelf and reminded himself that Mary was an intelligent and practical woman who might still see reason without any further unpleasantness. “I asked you to send her here.”

Jane stepped back from him. “I know, sir. I mean, I’m sorry sir, but she says she’s off to bed. She says she’ll see you in the morning.”

The girls was wringing her apron in her hands, and John barely restrained himself from snapping at her to stand still. “Tell my wife that I insist she come at once.”

Jane stared at him as if he’d asked her to complete the twelve labours of Hercules, until he finally pointed sharply at the staircase and she scampered away without a word.

He stood and began to pace the room in irritation. He found himself in front of the bookcase staring at the light cane he’d procured in his desperation earlier in the day. It was small, intended for the youngest of boys, and certainly unlikely to cause any real pain, let alone harm. He spun away from it and closed his eyes.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but she won't come down.” Jane lingered at the edge of the doorway, indicating the staircase as if to deflect his anger out to the rest of the house.

“Nevermind,” he grit out. “You can go.”

She bobbed her acknowledgement and barely managed to thank him before vanishing.

 

John was just as relieved by Jane’s departure. Mary seemed intent on humiliating him in front of the servants, defying him openly, and even putting the poor maid in the middle. He began to consider that it might be Mary’s own influence that was causing Jane’s impertinence, that in fact he wasn’t master of his own house. John was baffled by his wife’s behaviour, as Mary was certainly intelligent enough to realise that John’s humiliation was also hers.

He turned back to the bookshelf and fingered the cane. If it came to it, he had intended to do this in the consulting room. His own father had always meted out discipline in the study, and John had clear memories of the dread a visit there had evoked in him. He hadn’t wanted to bring such unpleasantness into Mary’s bedroom, where they were more than anywhere else husband and wife, the very place of their marital congress. Still, it might be best, if the natural order of their marriage had been so far disrupted.

He took the cane in his hand and began the slow march up to Mary’s bedroom. He had just enough time for the weight of what he planned to settle in his belly before he reached the open doorway.

Mary was sitting at her vanity, already in her nightgown as Jane pulled the pins from her hair. Though her back was to him, their eyes caught briefly in the mirror before John stalwartly forced his gaze away. He’d hoped to reach her before she was so vulnerable, though the nightgown saved him the decision of what to do with her skirts, as it was thin enough to stay in place.

“Leave us,” he ordered Jane, and the girl squeaked, whether at his military countenance or the cane in his hand, John couldn’t stay. She scurried quickly from the room, giving him a wide berth in the process.

In contrast, Mary was completely unperturbed, continuing to remove the pins as he considered her. John watched the blond curls tumble to her shoulders. All he wanted was to throw himself at her feet and be with her, impressed as always by her delicate fortitude. He knew, however, that he needed to overcome his sentiment, to recognise her weakness and the very real danger she could be in, trying to take on the world on her own.

“Mary, I forbade you to leave the house today.”

She pulled out the last pin and began to run a comb through her hair. He waited for a reaction, to his statement or even to the implied threat of the cane, but she did nothing other than tie her hair back with a scrap of cloth. 

As the air in the room took on a mildly oppressive quality, John took a breath to expand further. “I forbade you to leave the house today, and you disregarded my instructions, openly defying me. You defied me again tonight.”

He stopped to catch his breath, heart hammering with the weight of what he was about to do. “Go bend over the bed.”

At the command, Mary finally acknowledged him through the glass. He’d expected tears, or perhaps pleading, but she looked at him more tired than afraid, as if she had a grim task ahead of her that she was resigned to face.

“John, don't do this.” It was not a plea, but not quite a warning either, rather advice that she knew would go unheeded.

“I don't want to, Mary, but I'm afraid you've left me no choice.” As his fingers tightened on the cane, his mind clung to the authority that she had entrusted him with when they were married. She was a nurse, and there was a strength in that, but it taught her nothing of the likes of Mr.Holmes, who moved others around like pawns on a chessboard, safety be damned. “You've refused to listen to reason, and you've acted wilfully against my direct instruction. What's done is done, and there's no use bargaining about what has to happen now. So, bend over the bed, and we'll soon be done with this as well.”

She turned on the stool to face him directly, and for a brief moment he thought she’d accepted the punishment, but she only stared at him, face of stone. “I'm not bargaining with you, John. I'm telling you not to do this. Nothing good will come of it.”

Every bone in his body wanted to believe her, but he and only he held the burden of manhood, knowing that his head must rule over his heart. Words had failed, as they often did, and he calmly walked forward to take his wife by the elbow.

As his fingers closed around her, suddenly everything shifted. There was a hand on his wrist, and another on his own elbow, twisting them in such an unnatural way that he was forced to contort the rest of his body just to keep the bones intact. Soon, he was prostrate on the floor, held in place by a devilish placement of Mary's bare feet and twisting grip, the cane forgotten until Mary snatched it up, holding it aloft in her free hand.

He braced himself for a strike that never came. “Do we really need to see this to the end, husband?” she asked.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to provoke her further in any way.

“Am I now entitled to make demands of your comings and goings?”

The questioning was shortened by the sound of heavy footsteps, and the sudden entrance of Holmes.

“I tried to stop him!” Jane's voice preceded her own entrance, by which time Mary had released him, as well as tossed the cane under the bed. “I tried to stop him, but he pushed past me.”

“The poor girl was speechless with fear, and I heard sounds of a struggle,” Holmes explained as Watson rose to his feet. “Are you quite all right?”

“I'm fine!” John snapped. “Why have you come?”

Holmes's eyes narrowed as they fell over John, Mary, and the partially obscured cane. “Isn't it obvious? We have a case.”

* * *

The carriage was comfortable as carriages go, but Watson was disinclined to enjoy it, especially after his role in the case had consisted of being the primary target for Holmes's scathing disdain for anyone's theories but his own. Compounded with the speculative glances from Holmes completely unrelated to the case, it was enough to make John wish he'd stayed at home. At least there his inadequacies hadn't served as a spectacle for two fishmongers, a prostitute, and Inspector Gregson.

Worse still was that Holmes just might have the solution to Watson's dilemma, if he could be trusted to act without deducing the entire state of Watson's marriage. Watson's choices were limited, though.

“Holmes, I'd like you to speak to your brother on my behalf. Please tell him that my wife is no longer able to work in his employment, in any capacity.”

Frowning, Holmes emerged from whatever trance he’d put himself in. “I doubt my brother would accept such a change. He has engaged your wife’s services for a considerable time.”

“And I’m to have no say in this?”

Holmes regarded him with genuine curiosity. “Why on earth would you have a say?”

“Because she’s my wife!” Watson barked at the implacable detective, the outburst punctuated by a sharp bump in the road. “I would have her safe.”

With a critical eyebrow raised at the display of sentiment, Holmes carelessly dismissed Watson’s reasoning. “Your wife is a very capable woman.”

“Yes,” John conceded, “but she’s still a woman, and I am her husband.”

“As you’ve mentioned.” Holmes returned his attention to the window, the conversation no doubt relegated to whatever mental dustbin he’d constructed for John’s marital strife.

“Holmes, I am adamant that my wife no longer work for your brother. It is my duty to protect her, and I will honor that duty, regardless of his position. He can find someone else to do his bidding.”

“My dear Watson, do you really believe my brother has a surfeit of women who are able to track down murderous secret societies and best army veterans in unarmed combat?”

At first confused by the mention of combat, Watson suddenly realized that Holmes was referring to the events earlier that evening. “My God, Holmes! She didn’t ‘best’ me. I was showing restraint to keep from hurting her.”

Holmes tilted his head in disbelief. “The cane was to keep from hurting her?”

“I wasn’t-” John shut his mouth on a sentence that wasn’t any of Holmes’s damn business.

“There’s no need to explain. The situation is quite clear,” Holmes assured him. “You attempted to coerce your wife into ending her employment with my brother, but she overpowered you. Now you hope to invoke a social norm to pressure my brother into ending it instead. I assure you, my brother will be no more susceptible to social pressure than your wife was to physical attacks.”

“I didn’t attack my wife!” he protested, to which Holmes responded with only a noncommittal hum. Watson ground his teeth. “As you’re a sworn bachelor, you must be an expert in marital relations. What do you suggest?”

“I make no suggestions, Watson, only observations. Your wife is an extraordinary woman, and when extraordinary people are constrained by the bonds of social convention, those bonds must be loosened lest they be completely torn asunder.”

“Damn it, Holmes, I love her, and I won’t stand idly by while she risks her life!” He fought to control his emotions as Holmes’s cool scrutiny pervaded his awareness. “I have to do something.”

“As you are so fond of telling me, my expertise does not extend to vagaries of human sentiment, much less to those involved in marriage. It does seem to me, however, that there must be a more straightforward way of expressing your devotion to your wife than the cane.”

* * *

For the second time that evening, John approached his wife’s bedroom with a weighted heart. Holmes had been right. He wanted Mary to obey him out of trust, not fear of punishment. She was an orphan, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t accustomed to the love and security of family, nor the duties that tied its members together. Her difficulty in trusting his authority was natural for someone in her position.

Furthermore, if he were honest with himself, he could admit that he’d not been the most attentive of husbands recently. While his forays into law enforcement were not as pernicious as drink or gambling, they’d kept him away from her, nonetheless. If their marriage had steered off course, John’s own negligence had certainly contributed, and it would behoove him to attend to his own shortcomings before addressing those of his wife.

He entered the room, and was startled by the sight of the maid dozing in an armchair.

“Jane, what are you doing?”

She started awake, and looked over to Mary, who turned fitfully in the bed. “Sorry, sir. Mrs. Watson asked me to stay with her.”

“Well, I’m here now. You can leave.”

She didn’t move other than to turn a nervous eye on Mary, who slowly propped herself up on the pillows and gave the girl a reassuring smile.

“It’s all right, Jane. I’ll be fine”

John didn’t like the idea of the maid playing protector to his wife, most especially from him, but he said nothing as she left the room. Instead, he sat softly on the edge of the bed, facing his wife. She couldn’t meet his eyes, and stared blankly off past his shoulder.

“Mary, I love you. Everything I’ve done has been out of love for you.”

When she didn’t respond, he lay a gentle hand on her shoulder, frowning as she pulled slightly away from his touch.

“You’re my wife. I want to be good to you. I want you to be happy with me.” 

He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her face from him. “John, no. I can’t”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, whether she couldn’t kiss him or couldn’t be happy with him. He pulled back, unsure of how to reconnect with her. She had never denied him affection before, had always seemed pleased with his touch. Their moments of physical intimacy had been more than marital duty for her, he was sure.

“Mary, it’s okay. Just let me try.”

She shook her head. “Not now, not after tonight.”

John frowned, realising that the evening had affected Mary more than he’d previously thought. They’d never been at odds before, and John had left her without a resolution. She was still upset, and he could indulge her in that. He could meet her stubbornness with kindness until she was ready to reconcile. 

He ran his hand down her arm, then lay a comforting kiss on her neck. When she tilted her head, forcing his face away, he lay another on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mary.”

“Stop,” she muttered, pulling from him until she was flat against the headboard. That was as far as she went, however, and John followed, reaching under the blankets to draw a hand up her leg. He shushed and soothed her as his lips found her neck again, and his hand rucked the nightgown up past her knees.

She halfheartedly pushed at his shoulders, his hands, and the nightgown as she twisted on the bed in response to his touch. “John, please, stop.”

He ignored her words and focussed on the flush of her cheeks, emboldened and reassured by her arousal. She was beautiful, and her soft writhing excited him as he put a leg between her knees. Her eyes were closed, but he felt the connection between them strengthen, and he knew that this was what they needed to mend it fully.

He grabbed her thigh and bent down to kiss her lips, but as soon as they touched, she grabbed his face and pushed it violently away. He sat up, shocked by the sudden pain. One hand tightened on her thigh as the other slammed down on the headboard.

“You are my _wife_!” he shouted.

She flinched, then scrambled up and shoved him over until he was pinned on his back, her knee on his breastbone and one of her hands maintaining a steady pressure on his throat. She looked as he’d never seen her before, and in the moment, he thought she might kill him.

Mercifully, she came back to her herself and took her hand from his throat. She shook as she climbed off him, studying her hand as if it held the key to her sudden confusion.

“What am I doing?” she asked, and before he could respond, began to cry.

She knelt on the bed like a statue as the tears rolled down her face. John was bewildered that this was the same woman who’d almost strangled him a few moments before. He rubbed at his neck as he watched her fall apart. While it pained him to see her in such distress, he was almost relieved that she’d finally come to terms with how far her behaviour had strayed from the natural order.

He reached out to comfort her, reassuring her that he would be there for her regardless of the circumstances, but she shrank from his intended embrace. “No, you should go.”

Driven to prove his love, he tried again. “It’s okay, Mary. I’m not angry.”

“What?” She stared up in watery disbelief.

“Darling, I know you didn’t have a family, and these things are difficult for you to understand, but I forgive you no matter what you do.”

“What are you-” She stopped suddenly and shook her head. “Just go.”

“Mary, please”

“Get out!”

Helpless in the face of his wife’s rejection of the marital bond, John pulled himself from her and reluctantly made his retreat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to embalmer56, who caught so many errors and encouraged me to get this out there. Thanks to everyone for your patience.

John lay on his bed and mulled over the evening. He’d tried everything in his power to restore their marriage to its natural state, and nothing had been successful. Mary had resisted not only reason and his authority, but even his affection. Like the butcher, he wanted to blame the campaign for its influence, or more likely Mycroft Holmes for his manipulations. Though those factors may have instigated the disruption, and Mary’s obstinance sustained it, John’s thoughts continued to return to his own culpability. He’d done everything a husband should, provided her with home, security, and direction, and yet everything he did was wrong.

He turned helplessly in bed, wanting nothing more than to feel his wife beside him. Finally, after an eternity of solitude, he rose and returned to her doorway. Wary of making things worse again, John knocked on the door.

“Please, Mary. Let me come in. I just want to be near you.”

There was no response, and John slowly pushed open the door. “Mary?”

She was gone.

* * *

The silence of the Diogenes Club hammered in John’s ears as he brushed rudely past all those between him and the Stranger’s Room.

“I demand to see my wife,” he snapped, as soon as he passed the threshold.

Mycroft Holmes peered at him from behind a leg of lamb. “Mary Morstan is not available at the moment. I suggest you find other diversions with which to occupy yourself.”

John bristled at the tone, and at the nonchalance of the elder Holmes. “Watson. Mary Watson.”

“That’s not what I’ve been led to believe.” Mycroft relinquished his hold on the lamb and considered the plate of puddings before him.

“You will bring me my wife or I’ll-”

“Dr. Watson, there’s no need for histrionic threats. Surely you realise I’ve prepared for situations far more perilous than a jealous husband.”

John’s reply was forestalled by the appearance of his wife in a shadowed doorway. He hadn’t realised that any clubs in the city would allow women to enter, and certainly not outside of the company of their husbands. She approached them both, but addressed Holmes without even acknowledging John. “There’s no need to nettle him.”

“Mary, I-” He cut himself off before he demanded that she return home. “I have urgent business to discuss with you.”

Her eyebrows rose in perfect arches above her expectant stare, and John realized that he did not, in fact, have any business to discuss outside of demanding her return.

“It’s of a personal nature,” he ventured, indicating Mr. Holmes with a tilt of his head.

“Given your last two interactions of a personal nature, it seems prudent that this one remain supervised,” Mr. Holmes observed. “I understand that you barely escaped the last one with your life, Dr. Watson.”

“Mary, please,” he asked, ignoring the taunt. When his wife stepped to the side of the room, giving them some semblance of privacy, he reached out for her. “I came… I came to apologise.”

“”Don’t touch me.”

He pulled back and sighed. Right or wrong, his own wife couldn’t bear his touch, and John couldn’t help but feel that he’d failed her in some way. “I’m sorry, Mary. I’m so sorry for everything.”

She frowned, tiny lines appearing between her brows. “You don’t even understand why you _should_ be sorry.”

The response stung him, even more for the truth of it. Women had their own way of thinking, inscrutable and elusive, but thoughts nonetheless. It pained him to think that Mary’s were beyond him, regardless of their rationality.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m sorry nonetheless. All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy. Everything has been for you, Mary: the house, the servants, everything. It’s all to give you the life you should have.” 

“The life _you_ want for me.”

“Of course, Mary. I want the best for you, and I’ve tried to be a good husband to you.”

The statement did not reassure her as it should. She turned from him, and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “I don’t want you to ‘be a good husband’ to me.”

“I don’t know what else to be.” The thought of losing Mary as a wife, losing her altogether, was unbearable. “Why did you marry me, if you don’t want me to be your husband?”

“I wanted to be married to _you_ , John, not this... this life you think I should have.”

The words made no sense, that she wanted to be married, but not have a married life. “Mary, darling, this is what marriage is. I’ll always take care of you.”

“I don’t want that, John,” she snapped.

He'd always loved her for her courage and commitment, but when he'd married her, he'd been the one to take on her fight for her, and to keep her safe from the dangers inherent in doing things on her own. If she didn’t want that, then John didn’t know where it left them.

“If you no longer want to be with me Mary…”

“I do, but I want to be with _you_ , not this ‘husband’ character that you’ve written for yourself. I want to be with the man whose proposal I accepted.”

“I have a duty to-”

“Perhaps if you thought of her as your mistress,” Mr. Holmes suggested. “A woman whose safety and choices are not your responsibility, but to whom you can turn for companionship and other forms of comfort.”

“Mrs. Watson is not my mistress!” John shouted. “And this conversation is none of your damn business!”

The outburst only seemed to amuse Mr. Holmes. “On the contrary, Agent Morstan’s well-being and ability to carry out her duties are at the heart of my business.”

“Mr. Holmes, please!” Mary sent the man a piercing look, and he went back to his cakes with a self-satisfied smirk. His wife turned her attention back to him, the very image of overstretched patience, and John was startled to realise that she might be as frustrated with his actions as he was with hers.

“John, of all people, I thought you could understand. You go off on your own adventures, and I’d never try to take that from you.”

“It’s not the same!” he protested.

“Indeed, your wife is much more qualified to deal with the situations she finds herself in.” Before either of the Watsons could interject, he addressed Mary directly. “There’s no reason to coddle him. You are right, and he is wrong. Frankly, the entire argument is dull and a waste of everyone’s time. Your husband’s understanding is far less relevant than his behaviour.”

Watson was speechless with affront. The idea that any man would speak to his wife with such familiarity shocked him, not to mention that Holmes was meddling relentlessly in their affairs, and attempting to undermine the marital bond itself. Before he could collect his thoughts to form any sort of rebuke, Mr. Holmes spoke again.

“Dr. Watson, sentiment aside, are you willing to refrain from these ridiculous attempts to keep Agent Morstan from her work?”

Watson marched toward him, finger pointed in accusation. “My wife does not need your protection from me, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes only smiled joylessly. “Your wife did not come here for my ‘protection’. She came here to obtain approval for a new identity.”

John froze. It was as though the floor beneath him had ceased providing support, and he stumbled in place until he could bring himself to look back toward Mary, who was carefully avoiding his gaze.

“You would have left me? Vanished altogether?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, still unable to look him in the eye. “No, John. We would have staged my death.”

“Mary, how could you?”

“Think of it, John. You could start over, with someone who wants the same things as you.”

John searched Mary’s face for hint of cruelty or manipulation, but he found nothing but sincerity. Mary truly believed that he’d be better off with her dead. “But Mary, what I want is to be with you.”

“Be with me? You don’t even want me to _be_ me.”

“Of course I do! I just want-” He stopped himself, reflective and ashamed. He just wanted her to be a different her, one who wouldn’t be his Mary at all. “I just want you back. I don’t care what I have to do. Come home, Mary. Please.”

“I want to John, but that life isn’t for me.”

“Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

“I won’t make you happy.”

“Mary, you’re the _only_ thing that will make me happy.” His desperation appeared to put a chink in her emotional armour, but it wasn’t quite enough. She shook her head.

“I can’t live that life.”

“I want you more than I want that life. I could give up any of it except you.”

“Bravo, Doctor,” Mr. Holmes began clapping from his perch. “It appears that your excessive sentiment has overcome your excessive stupidity.”

Watson ignored him. Nothing mattered except Mary, his beautiful Mary, who was staring at him as if she might just believe what he was saying.

“I don’t want any of that, Mary. I want you and me.”

“And adventure,” Mary prompted.

“And adventure.”

Holmes be damned, Watson stepped forward and kissed his wife full on the lips. She allowed it, then finally responded, and he relaxed into her touch. When they let go, he looked her straight in the eye. “I love you, Mary. I’m sorry I’ve been so blind.”

She said nothing, just put a hand on his cheek, and he turned to kiss her palm.

“I have to go John. I’ll be back tonight. We can talk then.”

“Where are-” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “I’ll see you tonight, darling.”

She smiled and turned away.

Before John could make his own exit, the ominous voice of Mycroft Holmes halted him.

“A moment, if you please, Doctor.”

Watson spun, the prospect of his wife’s return inoculating him against any humiliation the elder Holmes might have in store.

“If you ever assault Mary Morstan again, and by some miracle survive the incident, I will send my second best agent to ensure you no longer have use of either of your hands.”

John blinked at the threat. “Your second best agent?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t be appropriate to send a woman to maim her own husband, would it?”

* * *

John sat at the table, feeling for once that his life may had reached an equilibrium. It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected, but the fires were lit, his papers were in front of him, and Jane was laying out his breakfast. Most importantly, his wife was sitting across from him.

“Thank you, Jane,” Mary said, as her breakfast was served as well.

“Of course, ma’am.” Jane nodded respectfully before returning to the kitchen. The girl still was avoiding John at all costs, but at least she could be trusted to tend to her duties without constant supervision.

John took his spoon and cracked his egg, only to have the raw insides spill out onto his plate. He snatched up his toast, hoping to salvage some portion of the breakfast, and saw the charred and completely inedible underside of the bread.

“What the devil?!” He threw the toast back down and shouted for Jane, too infuriated to bother with the blasted bell.

The girl ran in. “Sir?”

“What is this?” he demanded, indicating the travesty of a meal in front of him.

Jane inspected his plate. “It’s raw egg, sir.” 

Aghast at her impudence, Watson stood and pointed a finger at her. “You mind your tongue! I’ve had quite enough of your insolence.”

Jane took a step back from him, eyes wide. “But, sir, I thought maybe you’d never seen one raw before, what with how you’ve never cooked your own breakfast.”

“You thought…” 

As he attempted to articulate his outrage, Mary broke the silence. “Jane, take up his plate.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jane complied, eager for any excuse to dodge John’s wrath.

“Here, John, take mine.” Mary pushed her own plate across the table. “I trust my breakfast wasn’t also sabotaged, Jane?”

“I didn’t-” Jane started to protest, but at Mary’s raised eyebrow, her cheeks pinkened and she hung her head. “No, ma’am. Yours is fine.”

“All right. Go make me another one, then.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jane made her escape, with John’s pointed glare hastening her exit.

“Unbelievable!”

“You had her beaten, John,” Mary reminded him. “Consider yourself fortunate she didn’t slip something inside your food in secret.”

He hadn’t actually had her beaten, but that was a distinction that Mary seemed unwilling to make, and he certainly wasn’t obliged to be grateful to the maid for not poisoning him. “I’d like you to have a word with her, darling.”

“I _have_ had a word with her. The poor thing came to me wracked with guilt over leaving me to handle you on my own. She said she wanted to learn to be more brave, and I encouraged her.” Mary bit down on a smile. “Clearly we need to revise the specifics.”

John frowned and lay into the breakfast intended for his wife. It had, of course, been perfectly prepared. “If you continue to indulge her, her behaviour will continue to worsen.”

“I quite fancy her behaviour, actually,” Mary said. “And I doubt frightening her will bring us anything good.”

Jane chose that moment to enter with another breakfast, made quickly enough that she’d clearly known she’d need a replacement. Mary accepted it with a smile, but stopped Jane from returning to the kitchen.

“Before you leave, Dr. Watson and I have a disagreement I’d like your opinion on.”

“Oh, I agree with you, ma’am.”

“My dear, you haven’t yet heard the nature of the disagreement,” Mary laughed.

Jane shifted on her feet, looking nervously between them. “I know, ma’am, but I agree with you all the same, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Mary acceded, and sent Jane back to the kitchen before addressing John. “You really should have her speak in your stories.”

“I prefer to be shown a basic level of respect inside my own home,” John stated, focussing on his breakfast.

Mary’s face softened, and John felt his own heart soften in response. “She will, John. She’s a hurt and frightened girl, and she just needs time. Don’t let it ruin our day.”

John couldn’t help but be buoyed by her choice of words. It was, in fact, _their_ day. She’d promised it to him, and he to her. No campaigns, no adventures, and no mysterious errands that inevitably traced back to Mycroft Holmes.

“Of course, Darling. Have you given any thought to how you might want to spend it?”

“In fact, I have,” she said, before the crash of the front door sent them both to their feet.

Sherlock Holmes burst in, his disregard for any basic courtesy or law in full evidence. “There’s been a murder.”

John looked between the detective and his wife, who was far too amused in the face of a man nearly taking the front door off its hinges. “Holmes, I can’t-” 

“He drowned in the street, in the middle of a crowd of spectators, not a drop of water in sight, save what he coughed up.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Mary commented, and to John’s horror, she did look intrigued by the public spectacle of such an curious death.

“Fascinating, indeed,” Holmes confirmed. “We should leave immediately.”

“But why do you believe it was a murder?” John asked.

“It may not have been, but in his hand was a bloody knife, and corpse has washed up on the side of the Thames, stabbed several times in the chest.”

John opened his mouth to decline, but Mary lay her hand on his arm and spoke. “It’s all right, John, you should go.”

His heart ran in two directions, one toward the duty he felt toward her and their marriage, and the other toward the adventure that he craved. He had promised the day to her, and he wanted to keep that promise. He started to protest, but the expression on Mary’s face suspended his ability to take any action. He was transfixed by the sight of her, encouraging him to chase adventure, even as he tried to deny it from her. He wondered at her, his beautiful wife, who could urge him to turn his back on his duty to her, just to pursue his own appetites.

In a flash of clarity, he saw it. She didn’t feel a duty toward him. She felt love. She didn’t want a husband who left her to traipse after the world’s only consulting detective; she wanted John, and that’s who he was. She understood him, in a way he hadn’t tried to understand her.

He stared at her, the woman whose secret life had eluded him for so long. He _observed_ her, as a Holmes might say, the woman who’d worked her way into the highest echelons of power with her formidable skill set. He observed the way she held herself, confident, lithe, and deceptively strong. He observed how her gaze missed nothing, her quick mind making sense of it all. He observed how she fought relentlessly at all levels, with tenacity and forgiveness in equal measure. He had seen all this before, but he hadn’t _observed_. He hadn’t cared to know.

John broke from his reverie and took Mary’s hands in his. “The case could take some time. I might not be home for days.”

“I understand.” 

“And it sounds quite dangerous.”

“I realize,” she reassured him.

“So I think…” He glanced at Holmes, then realized he didn’t give a damn what the man thought. “I think you should come along.”

Mary face broke into a smile, one that opened her to him in a way he’d never experienced before. The brightness of her dazzled him, and he was amazed that he’d ever thought to dull it. 

“There’s one thing I need to do first,” she said.

He tilted his head in question, and she leaned in, taking his face in her hands, and bringing their lips together. When they pulled back, he had no breath to speak, and she gave voice to both their thoughts.

“Let’s have an adventure.”


End file.
